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A throat cleared behind Carmine then. He turned, freezing when he saw Corrado. He hadn’t heard him approach, which wasn’t surprising considering he had a knack for sneaking up on people. “Sir?”
“I need to see you in my office, Carmine,” he said, his tone matching his expression. Stiff. Emotionless. Tense.
“Now?” he asked incredulously. “Can’t it wait?”
“No.”
Corrado walked off, leaving Carmine nervously sitting there beside his brother. He rocked in his chair for a few moments, purposely delaying it, before getting up and following his uncle down the hallway. When he reached the office, he saw his uncle sitting behind his desk. Carmine stepped inside and closed the door.
He waited for Corrado to tell him to have a seat, but he didn’t.
“A man’s word means as much as his blood,” Corrado said. “It’s an old Sicilian expression your grandfather used to say. Your word’s your salvation. What a man says, what he swears to, carries as much weight as who he is and what he does.”
Carmine stared across the office, keeping a straight face despite the anarchy going on inside of him. He watched as his uncle reached into a desk drawer, pulling out a small caliber .22 handgun and a large knife. The blade was serrated, six inches in length. Corrado placed them on the desk in front of him before closing the drawer.
“You gave your word over two years ago,” he continued. “In exchange for help, you bartered your freedom. You promised allegiance, and that’s something I take seriously. When I gave myself to the life decades ago, I knew it was for as long as I breathed. Some men have it handed to them, like Vincent, but I fought hard to prove myself. Antonio made me. He made me prove I was dedicated, that I wanted it, and I did. I like to think that’s why I’m still alive today and your father’s no longer with us.”
A light laugh escaped Corrado’s lips. It sounded to Carmine a lot like amusement mixed with cynicism. “It only took a few months for your grandfather to give me his blessing to marry his only daughter, but it took years before he trusted me enough to let me inside his organization. Because to men like us, it comes first—before our families, before our friends, before everything, it’s La Cosa Nostra.”
Picking up the knife, Corrado eyed it intently, running his fingers carefully along the blade. “Before we’ll welcome you in, you first have to bleed for us. Nowadays it’s usually a simple prick of the trigger finger, a tiny droplet of blood on a piece of paper. Painless, leaves no lasting scar, no mark identifying them as a man of honor. But back in my day, it was real. Did you know that?”
Carmine swallowed, trying to wet his painfully dry throat. “Yes, sir.”
“So did you bleed for Salvatore?”
“No,” he said. “All he wanted was my word.”
Corrado continued to gaze at the knife. “Give me your hand.”
For a brief second, Carmine blanched in fear, but there was no hesitance in his steps. He knew there couldn’t be. He extended his right hand and Corrado grabbed it, roughly yanking him closer and pinning it against the desk.
“A man’s word means as much as his blood,” Corrado repeated. “Sal only wanted your word, but I require your blood.”
Carmine squeezed his eyes shut when he felt the knife against his skin. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stay silent as the jagged blade cut into him. It slowly sliced across his palm, a searing burn igniting his hand as it tore into his flesh.
When it was over, Carmine opened his eyes again and relaxed, but he was too soon. Corrado grasped his hand tighter, violently closing it into a fist. Stabbing pain shot up his arm and he couldn’t hold back the strangled grunt that forced its way from his chest. Tears of agony stung his eyes, but none fell down his cheeks.
“You asked me to give Haven away, and I agreed,” Corrado said, still holding him there, “but I wasn’t just talking about walking her down the aisle. You want her? You love her? You’ve bled for her. She’s yours.”
He pushed him away from the desk and pulled out a rag to wipe the blood from his knife. Carmine clutched his wounded hand to his chest, keeping it fisted. After Corrado’s knife was clean, he placed it back in the drawer.
“I’ll give you the girl, but you can’t have the organization,” Corrado continued. “You’ll never prove yourself worthy of the oath, and nothing you can do will change my mind. You’ll never be a man of honor. You’re not cut out for this life, and I refuse to just hand it to you like Vincent had it handed to him.”
Carmine stared at him as those words sunk in. He had no clue what to say, or if a response was even warranted. His words weren’t cruel, no anger was in his voice. It was emotionless, spoken matter-of-factly. He would never be one of them. That was that.
“As far as I’m concerned, your personal debt to La Cosa Nostra has been satisfied,” Corrado said. “You owe nothing more.”
Carmine blinked rapidly. “That means . . .”
Corrado waved dismissively. “It means you’re free to go.”
Free. That word echoed through Carmine’s mind so feverishly he nearly forgot about the throbbing in his bleeding hand. “Go where?”
“Wherever you want,” he replied. “You should probably consult Haven first, though. Something tells me she wouldn’t be so forgiving the second time around.”
Dumbfounded, all Carmine could do was blink and nod in agreement.
Corrado stood up from his desk and walked around to face his nephew. Grabbing his arm, he pried his hand open and pressed the rag against the wound. The bleeding had slowed, but it still stung ferociously. After cleaning it up, Corrado wrapped it with a white bandage. “Now get out of here. Walk away.”
